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Through the Evil Days: A Clare Fergusson/Russ Van Alstyne Mystery
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In memory of Ronald C. Tucker (1930–2012)
As for me, I know that my Redeemer lives and that at the last he will stand upon the earth. After my awakening, he will raise me up; and in my body, I shall see God. I myself shall see, and my eyes behold him who is my friend and not a stranger.
—THE BOOK OF COMMON PRAYER
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Map
Friday, January 9
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Saturday, January 10
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Sunday, January 11
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Monday, January 12
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Tuesday, January 13
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Wednesday, January 14
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Thursday, January 15
Chapter 1
Friday, January 16
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Acknowledgments
Also by Julia Spencer-Fleming
About the Author
Copyright
If thou but trust in God to guide thee
And hope in Him through all thy ways,
He’ll give thee strength, whate’er betide thee,
And bear thee through the evil days.
Who trusts in God’s unchanging love
Builds on the rock that naught can move.
Sing, pray, and keep his ways unswerving,
so do thine own part faithfully,
and trust his Word; though undeserving.
Thou yet shalt find it true for thee.
God never yet forsook at need
the soul that trusted him indeed.
—Georg Neumark (1621–1681),
tr. Catherine Winkworth (1827–1878),
The Hymnal 1982, The Church Pension Fund
FRIDAY, JANUARY 9
1.
The dog’s barking woke Mikayla up. Ted and Helen—she was supposed to call them Uncle Ted and Aunt Helen, but she never did inside her own head—had told her Oscar was really a sweet dog. And it was true, he never growled at her. He was so big, though, with his tail going thunk-thunk-thunk and his long pink tongue and his stabby white teeth. Mikayla didn’t care how sweet he was, he scared her.
Right now his big deep bark was booming, over and over and over again. Mikayla burrowed beneath her quilts and pulled the pillow over her head. “Shut up, stupid dog,” she whispered. She waited for the thud of Ted and Helen’s bedroom door, footsteps on the stairs. It sounded like Oscar had to go bad. She shivered. What if the MacAllens didn’t do anything? She would have to let him out. That was the rule. Then she’d have to stand around in the freezing hallway until he pooped so she could let him back in.
She pushed her pillow away and scooted up. It sounded like the dog was already outside. Maybe Ted had let him out and fallen asleep. Grown-ups could sleep through anything. There had been times Mikayla had to talk to her mom before the bus came in the morning, and she’d shake her and shake her and Mom still didn’t do anything but mumble and roll over.
She climbed out of bed and put on her booties and her robe. The MacAllens had given them to her the afternoon she had come out of the hospital. The robe was pink and woolly and the booties had real sheepskin inside, which was good, because the MacAllens’ old house was always cold. She missed her mom’s apartment. She could spend all Saturday watching TV in her shortie pajamas, it was so warm inside.
Mikayla opened the bedroom door and wrinkled her nose. The hallway stank like a gas station, and the night-light was out. Moonlight streamed from Ted and Helen’s open door at the other end of the hall, and for a second she thought about trying to get one of them to let Oscar in. But they might be mad if she woke them up.
She clung to the railing as she walked down the unlit stairs. The stink was even worse in the front hall. She had her hand on the doorknob to let Oscar in when someone said, “Wait.”
She screamed.
“Shh. Shh. Mikayla. It’s me.”
She caught her breath at the familiar voice. “You scared me!”
There was a clank, like a pail setting on the floor, and then a figure moved out of the deep dark of the living room into the shadowy gray of the hall. “I’m sorry. I’m here to take you to your mom.”
“My mom?” Her heart was going bumpety-bump. She wasn’t sure if it was from her fright or from the idea of seeing her mom. “Really?”
“Yeah. I was just coming upstairs to get you.”
“But—” She frowned. “It’s the middle of the night. Are you supposed to be here?”
“Look, do you want to stay here with them? Fine by me. I’ll just leave.”
“No! Wait!” Mikayla stumbled toward the living room. “I wanna go. I wanna see Mom.”
“I dunno. Maybe I made a mistake, coming to get you.”
“No! No! Just let me—I have a suitcase. I’ll get my clothes, and then we can go.”
“I’ll get your clothes. You go get in my car. It’s in the driveway. I’ll be there in a minute”
It was snowy outside, and she was in her robe and pajamas, but s
he was afraid if she argued, she’d be left behind. “Okay.” She turned back to the door. “Can I take my coat and my book bag? They’re right here.”
“Yes, yes, yes. Jesus.”
She snatched them off their hooks and opened the door. Oscar’s barking got wilder.
“And don’t let the dog in!”
Mikayla shut the door behind her and ran along the narrow shoveled path to the drive. Oscar, standing in the snow, whined as she passed him, but he didn’t do anything to stop her. She jumped into the backseat of the waiting car and slammed the door. She sat, shaking from excitement and fear, her arms wrapped around her book bag. She was going to see her mom again. It had been so long.
Then she had an awful thought. Her recorder. She had left it in the bedroom, and Monday was music class. If she forgot it again, Ms. Clauson would kill her.
She could run back and get it. She knew right where it was. It wouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes. That would be okay. Maybe. She bit her lip and opened the door. Slipped out. She left the door open. That would prove she was coming right back.
She had taken three or four steps toward the house when she heard a whumping noise. Oscar stopped barking and lay in the snow. He whimpered. It sounded almost as bad as the barking. Then there was another whump, and another. In the black, moon-blank windows, she saw something orange-red kindle. It was far back, like something in the kitchen, maybe.
Oscar whined again.
The door slammed, and for a second she thought, It’s Ted, he’s running to stop me, he’s coming to get me, he’s going to save me, but she could see it wasn’t Ted MacAllen at all.
The orange-red glow grew brighter. Oscar sprang up, barking and barking, and Mikayla’s whole body shook. She remembered what she learned on Fire Safety Day: Don’t run back into a burning building, and that was a burning building, and what she had to do was call 911 and the firefighters at the station had been nice and she had gotten a real, hard helmet—
“What the hell are you doing? Get into the car, goddammit!”
She scrambled into the car. The door slammed against the bottom of her boot, like a hard slap. She twisted around to see out the back. The firefighter helmet was up in the bedroom, too, she remembered. With her recorder. She stuck her thumb in her mouth. The car engine firing up almost hid the sound of breaking glass. She sucked her thumb harder. She wasn’t going to think about Ted and Helen. She wasn’t going to think at all. But she stayed facing backwards looking at the snow and the moonlight and the house and the fire, until they rounded the bend in the road and she was gone.
2.
In her dream, Clare Fergusson was flying. Fast and low, heeled hard to the Black Hawk’s nose, aiming for the drifting gray-brown column of smoke and debris on the horizon. The radio cracked.
“Bravo five-two-five, this is three/first transport. Where the hell are you? We need evac, and we need it now!”
Three/first transport had been forty klicks out of Mosul when they hit the IEDs. Clare’s crew had been the closest. They had unceremoniously dumped a load of officers at the nearest Forward Operating Base, and now—
Clare switched on her mic. “Three/first, our ETA is in five. Hang on.”
She dropped the nose another five degrees. Checked the yaw to make sure she wasn’t overcompensating. Then flew on, over flat, hard-baked desert and over coffee brown, irrigated fields, and over narrow canals and cement villages, but the slowly rising smoke never got any closer. Clare could feel her heart pounding in rhythm with the rotors. “We need more speed!”
“Roger that.” Beside her, her copilot switched on the remaining fuel tank and increased the oxygen mix.
“Bravo five-two-five, this is three/first. We’ve got people bleeding out here. For chrissakes, hurry it up.”
Fear turned and kicked in her belly. Clare gasped, sucked in air, tried to control her panicked breathing. “We’ll be there, three/first. Hang on.” The yoke grew slippery in her hands, and her feet felt like lead ingots on the pedals. More desert, more fields, more canals, more villages, and the smoke always ahead, always in sight, always out of reach.
“Help us, Bravo five-two-five. For God’s sake, help us!”
“I’m trying!” She blinked away tears of frustration and rage. “I’m trying!”
Her copilot shook her arm. She took her eyes away from the dirty, drifting column to look at him. It was Russ. “Clare, wake up,” he said. “Wake up, love, wake up.”
She rolled toward him, bringing the sheets and blankets with her, her heart pounding, her breath coming in short pants. “Oh, God.” Over his shoulder, she could see the clock glowing. 2:00 A.M.
Russ pulled her close, rubbing her back with a firm hand. “What was it this time?”
She took a deep breath. “I was flying a medevac. People were dying, they were calling and calling on the radio, but no matter how fast I flew, I couldn’t reach them.” She shivered.
“Can I help?” He chafed her arm. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“I’m supposed to.” The PTSD counselor she was seeing encouraged her to share each bad memory out loud in order to lessen their power. Like the ancient Hebrews, who knew that to name God was to in some way control Him.
But dammit, Russ was her husband, not her therapist. She laid a hand on his cheek, rough and in need of a razor. “I’m sorry I woke you.”
“Hey, I have bad dreams about helicopters, too.”
She made a noise. “Vietnam-era Hueys. My nightmare helicopters are much cooler than yours.”
In the darkness, she could hear him smile. “No doubt.” He slid his hand down her arm, onto her hip. She scooted closer.
“Maybe there is something you can help with.”
“Mmn? And what’s that?” He shifted so his leg was beneath the curve of her belly, his knee pressing between her thighs.
“I have a hard time relaxing. So I can fall back asleep.” One by one, she undid the buttons of her flannel nightgown.
“Do you, now?” In his voice, she could hear both amusement and heat. She gasped as his hand closed over her breast. He murmured something deep-throated and inarticulate as he bent his head to her.
From the bedside table, his phone rang. Russ cursed, sighed, then swung away from her, grabbing the phone and curling upward in one smooth movement. As the Millers Kill chief of police, he had long experience with middle-of-the-night calls. “Van Alstyne here.” There was a long pause. “Oh, hell. Yeah. Okay.” He snapped on the lamp. “Give me the address.” He jotted something down on a notepad. Then he looked at her. “Yeah, she’s here.” His eyebrows rose. He handed her the phone. “John Huggins. He wants to talk to you.”
“Me?” She wrestled herself into a sitting position. “Is it a missing person?” Huggins, the head of the volunteer Fire Department, had taken her on as a searcher a couple of times, but Clare knew she was at the bottom of his roster. She couldn’t imagine he’d want her now. Maybe he didn’t know. “Hello?”
“Fergusson? You’re still a reverend, right? I mean, you didn’t have to quit or anything, now you’re hooked up with the chief?”
She rubbed her face. “Episcopal priests can get married, John.” She watched Russ haul his heavy winter uniform out of the closet.
“Good. Good. I got a favor to ask. We’re on a fire call, and it’s a bad one. The folks who lived here didn’t make it out.”
“Oh, no.”
“A lot of my guys never worked a fatality before. They’re kind of shook up. I was wondering if you could maybe be out here, you know, to talk to any of the guys who need some bucking up.”
She slid out of bed, shivering again as her feet hit the cold floor. “Of course. I can hitch a ride with Russ.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. I figured since you were going to get woke up anyway, I’d ask you instead of Dr. McFeely or Reverend Inman. See you over here.” He hung up.
Russ tugged his thermal shirt over his head. “What was that?”
She
handed him back his phone. “Evidently, we’re now a twofer.” She picked up yesterday’s clerical blouse from where she’d tossed it. “Huggins asked if I could go over with you and make myself available to anyone who needs to talk.”
Russ paused from buttoning his insulated pants. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“He said it’s the first fatal fire for some of the volunteers. If I can help, I will.” She tossed a bra and long johns onto the bed.
“I meant—you need your sleep. And I don’t think it’s a good idea to be standing around all night in minus-ten-degree weather when you’re … you’re…”
She pulled her voluminous flannel nightgown over her head, displaying her abdomen, in all its well-rounded, five-and-a-half-months glory. “Pregnant is the word you’re searching for. Expecting. With child. In a family way.”
His face tightened. He turned back to the closet and lifted his gun locker from the shelf. “Fine. If you’re okay with it, I’m okay. Dress warmly.”
“Dress warmly,” she muttered, wiggling into her underwear and long johns. She felt plenty warm already, from the small hot flame of anger that had ignited in her gut. “Knocked up,” she said to his back. “A bun in the oven. Enceinte. Preggers.”
He whirled toward her, startling her. “Are you trying to start a fight?”
Yes. At least a fight would clear the air. “I just want you to be able to talk about it. We never talk about it.”
“We’re having a kid. What is there to talk about?” He picked up his glasses and put them on. “I’ll make us some coffee to go. Hurry up.” He headed downstairs.
“Decaf for me,” she yelled after him. God, how she hated decaf. She layered a heavy wool sweater over her clericals before buttoning on her collar. She fastened her silver cross around her neck and held it tightly in one hand. She closed her eyes and tried to let her anger float away with her breath. Dear God, please help me to be more understanding of my husband, who’s being a monumental jerk— She started again. Dear God, please help me to break through my husband’s stubbornness— No. She released the cross and pressed her hands against her abdomen. She knew what the right prayer was. “Dear God,” she said, “please help me.”
3.
Huggins had said the fire was a bad one, and he hadn’t been exaggerating. Standing shin-deep in the churned-up snow near the fire chief’s vehicle, Russ could feel the heat in waves across his face despite the single-digit temperatures. The MacAllen place was—or had been—an old farmhouse, set uphill and across the road from its barn. The land on either side had probably been cleared in the distant past, but it had been allowed to run wild, so that the blazing structure was boxed in on both sides by trees and brush.